Chapter 1: The Last Victim’s Shadow

“People make the best bait.”

That’s all the killer said when they caught him.

Those words echoed in my head—so cold, so clinical. Like he was just talking about worms or lures. That’s what made it so damn chilling.

And just like that, the whole Angler Disappearances case that shook our county was finally over.

It was all over the news—every station, every paper. Folks around here still talk about it, like it’s a campfire story that’ll never die. It’s weird, honestly. In a way, I became part of local legend.

And I was the last victim.

I’m not sure how to describe what it’s like, being the one who made it out. Sometimes I still wake up in a sweat, heart pounding. But today, standing in my kitchen with the sun pouring in, I felt nothing but relief—like I’d just dodged a bullet, and the world was suddenly lighter.

Honestly, for that one short hour, every single second felt like pure torture.

Time slowed down. My senses were sharp and raw—every creak of the floorboards, every shift in the shadows made me flinch. I remember the metallic taste of fear in my mouth. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

The killer had calmly set it all up right there, like he was performing some twisted ritual.

There was a method to his madness—a careful, almost practiced precision that made my skin crawl. He didn’t say much, just moved with this quiet intensity, as if he’d done it all before. The silence was worse than any threat. Way worse.

The fear of dying just hung over me—like a heavy, suffocating blanket.

It pressed down, thick as smoke. My mind raced. Every mistake I’d ever made, every goodbye I’d never said. I thought about my folks, my friends, even my old dog, Buddy. I prayed—honestly, I begged—someone would find me in time.

The second the front door was kicked in, I saw Sheriff Donnelly in his uniform. I nearly broke down. I was safe.

I’ll never forget that sound—the door splintering, boots pounding on the hardwood, Donnelly’s voice shouting my name. When I saw his face, I just about collapsed. Relief hit me—hard. I cried like a kid.

I took Sheriff Donnelly out to dinner to thank him.

It was the least I could do. He’d put his neck on the line for me. I told him I’d cover the tab—no arguments. He just grinned and said, “You know I’m not turning down a free meal.”

Over burgers and fries at our favorite diner, we talked about the whole crazy case.

The place was humming with the low chatter of regulars, the smell of grease and coffee thick in the air. We sat in our usual booth by the window, the neon sign flickering outside. I kept glancing around, half-expecting the killer to walk in, even though I knew it was over.